


it's like you hit me with lightning

by akaparalian



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Bathroom Sex, F/F, Femslash February, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actually, this isn't her usual type, the porcelain skin and the curtain of dark hair and the goddamn <i>purple</i> lipstick, but she's not going to lie to herself; she's totally leaning on the bar like it's a crutch, hands clenched just the slightest bit too tightly around a shotglass that <i>definitely</i> wasn't empty a couple seconds ago, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she stares across the crowded room and tells herself that, lukewarm musical abilities or not, America Chavez may or may not be about to become this band's first groupie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's like you hit me with lightning

**Author's Note:**

> For the trope bingo square 'band au'. Title from/soundtrack is Starry Eyed by Ellie Goulding.

It starts in a crowded, slightly dank nightclub, the smell of too many people and too much alcohol melting through the air in a way that makes her curl her upper lip slightly, the vivid red standing out stark against her skin. She doesn't really notice the band until somewhere after the second drink, because they're honestly not that good, and there is just too much people-watching to do here - this is the kind of place that draws a crowd united only by the fact that they're too cheap or too shady to go to one of the nicer clubs. There's basically nothing that can scare her off at this point in her life, but from time to time this place comes pretty close; there's an overt sense of shiftiness throughout the entire room, people dancing just closely enough and the lights just dark enough that she gets a definite feeling that most everyone wants to be left well enough alone, unless you happen to be a distinctly attractive stranger. And that's fine; that's what she wants, too, at least until somewhere after the second drink, because noticing the band is where it _really_ starts.

She happens to notice them just as they're starting into a new song, uptempo and rhythmic and just overall good dancing music; there aren't any vocals, at first, just one guitarist, one bassist, and one drummer. The thing is, they're not _that_ good - not terrible, but definitely not anything worth writing home about - and she's known that ever since she set foot inside this place, but they're all really, really damn attractive. Not that she's interested in the boys, of course, but every one of the four people up on that stage is very, very pretty. Her eyes are actually drawn to the drummer first, because it's not every day you see some kid with shit-you-not _white_ hair banging away on a trap set like nobody's business, but that only lasts for about ten seconds, because the vocals finally come in.

The girl isn't a spectacular singer, but she's not bad - or at least, that's what she'd be thinking if she was actually paying any fucking attention to the words and melodies rolling smooth and quick from between her lips. She's _not_ paying any attention, though, unabashedly and unreservedly not, because this frontwoman most of all makes up for what the band lacks in particular talent with pure, unadulterated gorgeousness. She sings like it's a lifeline, too, her voice nothing special but the curl of emotion underneath the pitch damn _hypnotic_. Actually, this isn't her usual type, the porcelain skin and the curtain of dark hair and the goddamn _purple_ lipstick, but she's not going to lie to herself; she's totally leaning on the bar like it's a crutch, hands clenched just the slightest bit too tightly around a shotglass that _definitely_ wasn't empty a couple seconds ago, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she stares across the crowded room and tells herself that, lukewarm musical abilities or not, America Chavez may or may not be about to become this band's first groupie.

 

\---

Of course, she doesn't actually know what the band is _called_ until they're leaving the stage nearly an hour later at the end of their set to let the next middling newbies take the stage; Young Avengers isn't the greatest band name she's ever heard, but it's not _terrible_ , which so far has been very much the theme of not only the group but also her night as a whole. She's pretty optimistic, though, for no real reason other than the fact that the guy leaning on the bar next to her has been casting sidelong glances all night; she's not interested in _him_ , of course, and it could be that he just has low standards or something, but it could also mean she looks especially good tonight, which is a vote of confidence that lends her a little more swagger when she pushes off from the bar, leaving several empty glasses behind her, just buzzed enough to get that _other_ vote of confidence she was waiting on.

She keeps her eyes pinned to porcelain skin and sleek dark hair, moves through the room with her eyes trained entirely on that one slender figure wrapped in a purple dress, presumably to match the stupid purple lipstick that she really, really, definitely should _not_ find attractive in any way, but completely does; the balance of short, flouncy skirt and high, fitted neckline is more understandably intoxicating, but no less maddening for the fact that she understands it, in part because she's still _all the way across the room_ and not telling this girl exactly how fucking stupidly appealing she thinks her lipstick is. But she's working on that.

By the time she's even halfway across the room, the band is slipping out a door somewhere along the back wall; she keeps wading her way through the crowd, though, dodging between couples dancing with arms and legs wrapped around one another in incredibly athletic ways and the occasional more awkward pair with a good six inches of space between them at any point and the slightly more common sharklike, circling singles, slipping silently in to steal dances from those all around her. Normally, she'd think about trying to find one of _them_ to dance with, but she's on a mission, goddammit. So she slinks through the crowd, instead, the tap of her heels on the floor completely drowned out by the noise of the latest band, who are, admittedly, significantly more talented than the last, but also not lead by nearly as attractive of a dark-haired young lady, or in fact lead by a dark-haired young lady at all, so she's vastly less interested.

Eventually, she makes it all the way to the back wall; she dithers for a second between pacing and waiting it out, and ends up leaning against the wall within sight of the door the band had disappeared through, completely positive they're going to come back through it, because why play a gig in a place like this if you're not even going to come dance afterward, and also casually ignoring almost everything around her, except for the beat of the song thumping out of the speakers several meters behind her head, fast enough to be almost frenetic. It's not like her heartbeat needs the _help_ \- she can't control it, pretty girls just _do_ that to her; it seems like a pretty normal response, really - but at least the pace fits, flowing easily from one fast-and-loud tune to the next while she patiently waits it out, trying really hard to avoid feeling like a creep leaning against this back wall.

It only takes three more songs for the band to come filing back out, ghost-haired drummer first, followed by what appears to be his darker-haired alternate universe copy and the strong-shouldered blond bassist. She more or less ignores them as they filter out into the club, and they more or less ignore her back, which would be fine except for that they also let the door swing closed behind them. America experiences a spike of preemptive disappointment, ice through the haze of blind attraction she's been rolling in for most of the night, but then the door opens back up again and all is saved.

Unlike her bandmates, gorgeous leading lady _doesn't_ more or less ignore her. She catches her eye as soon as the door opens, stops dead in the doorway with one hand braced on the battered wooden frame, and America's breath catches in her throat despite any lingering good intentions she might have had; she's gorgeous, her lipstick obviously recently reapplied and vividly violet, and her eyes suddenly all the more blue for it. They stare at each other for a moment, and she just _knows_ that intent is painted obviously all over her face, but she doesn't even care, because when leading lady swallows she can see the movement so clearly in her throat even through the dim light and the haze of too many people and too much sound and every last one of those lingering good intentions goes flying out the proverbial window.

It's only a moment, though, and in the next one leading lady steps fully through the door and America straightens, back suddenly stiff under her trademark jacket as bright purple heels - and _God_ , has this girl ever heard of a color other than purple? - clack toward her, too soft to hear over the pulse of the replacement band but somehow ringing in her ears anyway, and she stops when she's standing a mere foot away, one eyebrow raised in a way that's not quite coy but not quite unimpressed, either, blue eyes skittering down from America's eyes to her Marilyn-red lipstick to the red-white-and-blue of her jacket, finally settling on the high-waisted shorts and the motorcycle boots and then she has the gall to _laugh_.

Just a little snort of a laugh, really, but still real, and then she leans one shoulder against the wall herself and says, voice frank but eyes sparkling, "If you tell me your name is America, I swear to God I'm turning and walking away."

It takes her a second to comprehend that that statement is something that actually happened, but then she feels a slow smile spread over her lips, leans forward slightly into the no-man's-land space between them. "Well," she says, her voice low and confidential, just loud enough to be heard, "I guess I don't have to tell you, then." She bursts out in full-fledged laughter this time, so high and bright that America's kind of certain that she's either had a little to drink herself or she's just the kind of person who can laugh at strangers' unironically ironic fashion choices without reserve, and either way that's something she can get behind. It takes her just long enough to come down from the mirth that America has a chance to get all caught up in the way her eyes are fluttering closed and she's curling in on herself just enough for her hands to drift over her collarbones, lean in another little bit closer, and catch a whiff of decidedly rich-girl perfume that really, really, _really_ does not deserve to be intoxicating, but then again compared to the vaguely dank smell of these place, the appeal of - goddamn it, that's _lavender_ , of all the stupid purple flowers in the purple world - isn't really all that surprising.

"Well, America," she says when she's wound down a little, and now _she's_ leaning in, too, and still leaning one shoulder to the wall, "I'm Kate. I'm with the band."

"I know," she replies, which, well, understatement of the century, at least a little bit. "You guys are pretty good." Lie - not a huge lie, but a lie, and Kate gives a little snort again, which is way too undignified to be attractive but America's also in too deep on this particular evening to find in _un_ attractive, so it's okay.

"No, we're not," Kate corrects, and they're both _still_ leaning closer and closer in increments, only a few inches apart now, and purple lipstick is becoming more and more appealing down in some deep dark corner of her brain, "but thanks for trying," and it's her turn to laugh, more quietly and, she hopes to God, with more dignity.

She lets herself drawl a little bit, playing up the 'America' factor a little bit more because it had at least gotten her a laugh, and also because she's experiencing a little bit of brain-mouth disconnect and drawling is just sort of something that happens. "Well," she admits, sly and smiling lopsided and slick, "I wasn't paying that much attention to the band. Too distracted by the hot singer, I guess."

"That line totally should not work on me," Kate breathes, and they're close enough now that she doesn't have to say it any louder, but she's smiling a little bit ruefully up at her and America's smiling a little bit smugly back down and that's it, really.

 

\---

She's not even sure exactly how they got to the bathroom, honestly, but she is aware of the way the door slams open behind them, crashes into the wall only to be completely disregarded as they crowd each other into the first stall with extreme prejudice. There are hands everywhere and it turns out Kate doesn't actually taste like the color purple, which actually seems a little bit disappointing, but she's getting over that real fast, because Kate is an apparently very experienced and objectively very incredibly kisser, and her hair is silky and perfect to tangle her fingers in, and she's pushing back against her and America can feel the buzz of it in her lips, and it's pretty fucking wonderful.

It's a little impractical to get full-on naked, but she at least sheds her jacket, taking the opportunity to take a deep breath before Kate insistently molds herself against the lines of her body again; her dress is riding up on her thighs, short short short enough to flip up just slightly too easily, and America's only human. Her hands drift down out of Kate's hair, smooth along her sides, come to rest on the gentle curve of her ass with the skirt pushed up and out of the way like it's nothing, and that's apparently an invitation because Kate's hips jerk forward and she lets out this little _noise_. It's unidentifiable in the moment, but it's also fucking hot, and she wants more of it.

Kate is, apparently and unsurprisingly, following a very similar train of thought, because barely a moment later there are previously unaccounted for hands resting very easily on the top of her breasts, and then they're gone again and working their way under her shirt, and then somehow getting between her back and the stall door - probably because she's arching forward, taut and electric, trying to get _closer_ , dammit - and her bra is suddenly unhooked, and Kate steps back just long enough to help her do the awkward clothes-removal shimmy before she's leaning forward again and smoothing her thumbs over flushing nipples and she makes a little noise again, low and appreciative this time, and America's _this close_ to somewhat preemptively declaring her vocal chords fucking illegal.

She's far too distracted to contemplate actually even commenting on that, though, because she's having this weird experience where Kate's leaning over and sucking one nipple into her mouth and caging it lightly between her teeth and she's slowly becoming aware that now _she's_ the one making the noises and any soft, responsive sounds Kate is making are just a response to that fact. Kate's also _smiling,_ wicked and a little sly, and even as America buries her hands in sleek black hair again she bites down a little harder, then moves on. And if her vocal chords are going to be illegal, then her teeth are, too; they're practically an injustice, needling sharp little pinpricks onto her flushed breasts and carving gentle half-moons into her in a way she doesn't normally find hot. She's beginning to suspect, though, that she's going to find most anything this girl does kind of hot, and that's a bit dangerous to her mental state, so she ignores it and tugs Kate back up with little pulls on her hair instead.

It's much less awkward for the both of them when Kate's not bending weirdly at the waist to accommodate the fact that this bathroom stall is singularly unconducive to putting your mouth on someone's tits, and it's pretty easy to distract her from something her unhappy little groan suggests she was quite happy doing by kissing her again, so that particular decision is a win overall. It's also much easier this way for her to unzip the silly purple dress and let it fall to the floor, and then slide her fingers neatly under the remaining black and frilly barrier, and when she just slips them in Kate lets out a full-on throaty _moan_ like it's nothing, and she's so surprised by that that her head bangs back against the stall door.

She's not _complaining_ , though - God forbid - and Kate's obviously receptive, so she pushes them in a little deeper, pulls back, experimentally moving through her and watching the way her eyes are squeezing shut so intently, her mouth falling open and much redder than she remembered, now that most of the lipstick's gone. There's a little whimper hanging in the air, and it sounds like _"Fuck,"_ , and she's not really sure which of them said it but she does know she's leaning down a little and leaning in, too, to rest her head on Kate's shoulder and pulling her underwear down with one hand while the other fucks into her slowly; she's barely even aware of it when she finds Kate's clit with her thumb and starts to easily stroke in time with her other fingers, and that earns her a second, slightly louder, more drawn out expletive. She grins wickedly at it, because they clearly both have the right idea, before unceremoniously dropping to her knees and leaning in.

Kate's bracing herself by her forearms on either side of the stall, and her breath is shaky and uneven, and these tiny moans are getting out of her with every exhale, and America hasn't even made contact yet. She's just sitting here, for the time being, enjoying the way looking up at Kate through her eyelashes and kneeling between her legs is, evidently, among the last of the straws. She's waiting it out, though, because if she's already getting close to the last straw, there probably isn't _that_ much longer to hold on.

"Please," Kate groans, tremulous, and she grins like a fox before she finally leans in and licks up in a long stripe; she's rewarded with another one of those deep, full moans, getting a little shakier now but still fucking incredible, heady and warm, and she's feeling pretty satisfied with this decision.

Kate's thighs are quivering just slightly on either side of her face, and when she rolls her tongue up into something resembling a spear and nudges it inside they go still for a moment before she groans and they tremble in earnest. And _then_ when she leisurely picks up what's more or less a rhythm she feels one of Kate's hands leave the wall and twist tightly in her curls, pulling her insistently farther and farther in. She's becoming less and less aware of the noises Kate's making, actually, which would be a disappointment except for the fact that her senses are focusing instead on the taste of her and the way she looks, her smooth composure utterly gone and her lips practically bitten to pieces, cheeks flushed cherry-red under clear white skin. It's absolutely incredible - feels like power, in a way, but also privilege, because not many people get to see a sight like that.

That's pretty damn sappy for eating out a stranger in a public restroom, but hell, Kate's pretty damn beautiful - not to mention _responsive_ , her fingers twitching in America's hair with every move of her tongue, and the way she _keens_ when lips touch her clit is fucking extraordinary. She's half-aware that Kate's babbling words at her, but she's tuned out just enough that she couldn't tell you what they are, just that the tone of her voice is balanced perfectly between pleading, appreciative, and _close_ ; she's not quite sure what it is she does that pushes Kate over the edge, but she definitely feels it pulsing around her tongue and hears it, too, Kate's voice suddenly cutting right back through her mental haze in a chorus of what's probably supposed to be her name and some assorted expletives and then a deep, satisfied sigh.

They just stand there for a minute, breathing heavily out into the suddenly silent air; she rests her head against Kate's thighs, and Kate's hands are abruptly limp in her hair, squeezing just slightly every so often as though to remind her she's still there. Finally, she tugs a bit more surely, and that's all the warning she gets before Kate's settling at her level, knees knocking slightly on the dirty linoleum floor, and they just stare at each other for a moment. Kate's eyes are deliciously hooded and her smile is satisfied, and after a few heartbeats' worth of staring at each other she leans over and kisses her deeply; Kate responds happily, her hands settling down low in America's curls and then tugging their way free and settling on her waist instead.

It's warm and slower now, and they're both quite content to stay like that for a spell; the band in the other room has just started in on a new song, and the bass is shaking the entire building, probably, or at least it's definitely thumping through the floor underneath them, and Kate tilts her head another tiny increment to one side and makes it all deeper, and then suddenly her hands are nudging at the insides of America's thighs and it seems like she's pretty keen on returning the favor.

Just her fingers, sure, but they're nimble and slender and long - graceful fingers, and America can picture them dancing over a piano or pulling a neatly-rosined bow across the strings, and that wouldn't be sexy except for the fact that it very much seems to fit _Kate_ , a special blend of sophisticated and adventurous that America can _totally_ get behind. Or, well, in front of. Or on top of. Or underneath. Whatever works.

It's more slow and methodical, what Kate's doing; America's breath is catching in her throat and creating tiny little groans, but she's not nearly as vocal, and both of them are just enough calmer now that taking it slower seems like a good idea. Kate keeps kissing her, too, and her tongue is one of the more splendid things about her, all told. Neither of them can quite seem to catch their breath, and that's due in large part to the insistent seal of Kate's mouth and the way she's arching forward, leaning heavily against America even as her long graceful spirited fingers glide along almost of their own accord. There's a thought lingering at the back of her mind, something like _Jesus, this girl really is incredible_ , but she's not quite do what to do with it so mostly she lets it sink unfettered.

Her own orgasm is easy and almost insurmountable; Kate holds her fingers in position, and feeling herself clench tight around them is fucking spectacular, and when Kate just leaves them there, leaning forward and nuzzling the crook of her neck in a satisfied kind of way, that's pretty spectacular too.

They end up putting their clothes back on, slowly, helping each other with little shimmies and gentle fingers, and when Kate turns around and lifts up her hair and America has to reach forward and slowly, gently slide the zipper up, something catches in her throat. And that's probably stupid; actually, it's almost definitely stupid. But whatever. Maybe she's _feeling_ a little stupid.

"So, listen," she says as she finishes with the zipper and steps slightly back, reaching down to pick up her jacket and shrug it back on, the denim settling crisp and cool over her shoulders. "We should - I mean, can I have your number?"

Kate stills in the process of slipping into the heels America somehow hadn't even realized she'd ever taken off, looks up at her through a little fringe of fluffy black bangs, and, after a terrifying moment of utter quiet, she grins brightly back at her, nodding slightly as she steps fully into the shoes and stands, suddenly a couple of inches taller.

"I think that can definitely be arranged," she says, voice slightly haughty like she's endowing a great gift, and America snorts but doesn't point it out because, fuck, in a way it's kind of true.

"C'mon, princess," she says instead, holding out her hand and reaching behind her to unlock the door and gesturing with her head in the general direction of the dance floor, where the beat is once again thumping loud enough to shake the room. Kate scoffs slightly at the nickname, and she doesn't know where the hell it came from, but it seems to fit, somehow; besides, there's no way she's going to get any closer to her without giving her _something_ that isn't her actual name. Maybe Kate knows that, too, because she takes her hand and squeezes and smiles and America can only barely hear herself say, "There's a band on. We might as well dance."

And if it ends with her finally making it home much later that night with a jealously guarded Sharpied-on number on the inside of her forearm, hey, she feels like that's something she's allowed to get a little bit sappy about.


End file.
